The Vanishing at Castle Moreau(5)
Author: Jaime Jo Wright

 

Cleo waited because she really had nothing to add. Not a thing. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel while Murphy perched on the seat next to her, his tail slapping the leather.

 

Deacon cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, my grandmother lives in Castle Moreau, and I expect she’ll insist you breach the walls in order to deal with her toxic mess.”

 

“Why is it called ‘Castle Moreau’ if your last name is Tremblay?” Cleo asked.

 

Deacon chuckled at her question. “My great-great-great-grandfather’s surname was Moreau. He had a daughter. She married. Names shifted. But the castle retains the original name.”

 

“Ah.” Cleo nodded.

 

Murphy uttered a little meow in his throat, pushing up to all fours and stretching. Cleo gave the cat a comforting pat on his head. She wished someone was in the car to do the same for her.

 

 

 

 

 

three

 

Daisy

 

 

She wondered if all castles were like this. Dark hues of navy blue in the corners where stone walls met mahogany floors, no windows in the hallways, only niches that created arched hollows in the walls, with cast-iron arms bearing kerosene lamps. It was cool but not damp. In fact, contrary to what Daisy had imagined when she’d stood outside the castle, the wind didn’t infiltrate the place. The elements were blocked by the castle’s thick walls.

 

“The castle is small iffen you compare it to the ones of the old world.” The stoop-shouldered, elderly man shuffled ahead of Daisy, lofting a lamp to help light the way. It had been evening when Daisy stood in the castle’s shadow, dusk when she’d mustered the nerve to lift the heavy knocker forged in the shape of a dragon’s head, and now it was nighttime. “There’s the south wing where’n you first comes in.” His grammar was awful, but Daisy hadn’t the heart to judge him. He seemed as uneducated as she was, so in a way, he made her feel a warmth that otherwise didn’t exist here at Castle Moreau. “South wing has them rooms that Madame Tremblay uses—like’n her study, and a place with stuffed, fancy chairs to drink yer tea, a library, another fancy place iffen visitors come—which they don’t—an’ so on. The east wing is the family wing. You won’t go there. Rooms bein’ private and all, you’d more’n like get sent to the dungeon for trespass.”

 

“There’s a dungeon?” Daisy’s breath hitched as the heels of her worn shoes made echoing footsteps on the floor.

 

A chuckle rumbled in the man’s chest. “Wouldn’t surprise me in this place.” It was a cryptic response and a non-answer to her genuine curiosity. “Yer room is here—in the north wing.”

 

“Is it where all the servants live?” Daisy adjusted the weight of her carpetbag on her elbow. The bag held all her belongings, and its well-worn and faded rust velvet had seen far better days.

 

The old man paused and lifted the lamp, which illuminated the drooping skin beneath his eyes, his jowls, and the long lobes of his ears. His face reminded Daisy of a beagle, and the floppy-eared dog reminded her of melted candle wax. So did Festus. At least that was what he’d called himself when she arrived. Festus. No surname or anything else to signify his position at the castle.

 

He stared at her now, and in the low light, Daisy couldn’t tell if his eyes were gray, or if they were so clouded with age that what had once been brilliant blue irises had through the years undergone a transformation of sorts.

 

“Other servants?” he rasped. “Ain’t none more than you.”

 

“Oh.” Daisy couldn’t hide the look of consternation that crossed her features. Who was going to show her what her duties were? Festus?

 

He shuffled forward again without offering further explanation as to the abysmal lack of staff. “You gets the north wing to yerself.” Festus announced this as if it were grand news and she the lucky recipient of some unexpected fortune. But as he rounded a corner that led to yet another lonely hallway, Daisy could barely swallow her anxiety.

 

Alone.

 

In the north wing.

 

Festus stopped before a door that was the same dark wood as the flooring. He twisted the heavy knob, and the door opened slowly with the eerie squeaking of old hinges.

 

“Here you be.” He stepped aside for Daisy to move past him.

 

She stared at the room with a mixture of amazement and utter horror. It was far larger than she’d expected. It was obvious that this was not a servant’s quarters, but an actual room probably used at one point for esteemed guests of the Moreau family. The room was indeed spacious, yet the luxury ended there.

 

The bed was canopied and covered in sheets that hung off the top frame, shielding the mattress from view. Spiderwebs swooped in the top corners of the room, decorating the crown molding with lacy strands of very-much-alive arachnids. A window at the far wall was void of its drapery. There was a wardrobe with a skeleton key sticking out from its lock. An Oriental rug stretched across the floor in faded hues of blue and yellow, which seemed to mock the rest of the dark room’s aged elegance.

 

“It’s like Miss Havisham’s house,” Daisy muttered to herself.

 

“Pardon?” Festus barked.

 

Daisy startled and turned her gaze on him. “Oh. Well, she’s from a book I read—Great Expectations by Mr. Dickens. Miss Havisham lives in an old mansion draped in cobwebs.”

 

Festus waved her off with a meaty hand and a grunt. “No time for books, me. Can’t read no how.”

 

Daisy had also been barely able to read. But fictional friends had offered her companionship, and so at thirteen she’d striven and labored until she could piece together language on paper and enter worlds that offered her escape from her own.

 

She allowed Festus to dismiss her observation. Comparing Castle Moreau to Miss Havisham’s thwarted wedding and rotting cake and horrific home conditions would be insulting, and she was a bit glad Festus didn’t know the novel she’d referred to.

 

“Right then,” Festus said. “Rest now. You can do yer things in the morning.”

 

“How . . . I mean, who . . . ?” Daisy was suddenly flustered. “Who should I look for in the morning?”

 

At Festus’s blank look, she tried again.

 

“To receive directions for my tasks, who should I find?”

 

Festus’s eyes widened in utter ignorance. “Iffen I knew that, we wouldn’t need you.” Then he closed the door with a thud, leaving Daisy to stand there alone, without guidance or direction, in the middle of a room that promised the appearance of ghostly apparitions as soon as the clock struck midnight.